Winters were snowball fights, road hockey matches with neighborhood friends, homemade backyard igloos, and shoveling walkways and laneways. The car didn’t leave the garage in the early morning hours until the lane was scraped clean of the fallen snow down to the blacktop, edged by frozen grass.
Dad was a policeman. He was was obsessive compulsive about cleanliness including his laneway which had to expose his blacktop without any snow or ice caked in. My brother and I were in elementary school, old enough to wake before the sun rose to shovel so dad could backup the car and report to duty downtown at the police station, on time. Expectations were high and we always yearned to meet dad’s standard. Fear and respect played a part.
Snowbanks rose to heights of three, four, five, and six feet around the laneway acting like hockey boards around an ice rink, creating an obstacle for us to throw snow off the laneway and over the bank. We had to become creative which meant more work, more scraping, and more time as boys doing a man’s job. It toughened us as we froze our ass off before school!
Summertime required a weekly lawn service. We were yard maintenance using dad’s electric lawnmower with its twenty-four foot cord whipping it back and forth over top of the mower in order to avoid running it over while going back and forth down the lawn, down the ditch, and back up to the edge of the road. It made me pay attention to details such as clearing the cord at all times while making straight cut lines representing a job well done, dad being the judge.
Indoor tasks, dumping the trash, helping mom clip laundry outdoors on the clothesline, and other responsibilities were what we did because it was an understood expectation. We weren’t victims. In hindsight, we were blessed with an opportunity to build our skills and acceptance of work at a young formative age. No weekly allowance, no bank account to put a paycheck.
My brother started a paper route down Ridgefield Road, one street behind our house. Soon after, age 9, I followed in his shoes as paperboy. Newspapers were piled next to my brother’s seven days each week. My route was in the shape of a horseshoe along Cherrywood Drive. For the next four years I delivered papers after school each week day, early mornings on weekends.
Plastic strips were wrapped and glued around the bundle of papers. I had no finger nail extension to pull the plastic apart due to nervously nibbling on them each day. A terrible habit. So, I’d cautiously bite down in order to separate the strip without cracking a tooth, tri-fold each newspaper, and place them in my basket, paper bag, wagon, or on a sled.
Monthly, I’d report one mile from our house to the parking lot of Saint Martin Des Porres Catholic church next to Our Lady of Peace, my elementary school. In the parking lot was an Ottawa Citizen van ready to receive my earnings minus my share and the tips I earned. Heading home, often I’d stop by the local liquor store to buy a Macintosh Toffee, Mike ‘n Ike, Fun Dip, or extra large Pixie Stix. I got my sugar rush addiction and loved it every time. The rest of my earnings went into my BMO bank account next to the local beer store. Cha Ching!
Savings were something I wanted to build and protect, which instilled a new mindset. Time management became an immediate learned skill without realizing it in the moment. I quickly became aware that part of my day was no longer my own so everything else had to be given some consideration. Less minutes, hours were mine each day. I had to manage them or suffer the consequences of incomplete homework, less study time, and reduced playtime with friends.
Note: Next post is a result of my restlessness after four years as a paperboy.
Take care, my friend 👍
